Page 2 of The Orc's Promised Bride

Ulric rose from his seat, his face still stern but his hand raised in a gesture of approval.

“Congratulations, Lothar,” the king said, and the crowd cheered again.

“Thank you,” he murmured, forcing the words past numb lips.

Knowing what he needed to do didn’t make it any easier as he wound his way through the crowded passages beneath the arena. The guards at Ulric’s private box nodded him through without challenge.

Ulric and Jessamin were sitting in silence, watching the crowd, and once again he caught that feeling of tension between them. He cleared his throat.

“Your Majesty.” His usual easy charm felt forced. “A word?”

“Of course. That was a fine showing out there.”

“About that.” He looked past the king to where the Bride had moved to the railing, her attention fixed on the healers attending to Garak. He yanked his focus back to Ulric. “I’d like to withdraw from the competition.”

Ulric studied him, then followed his earlier glance toward the Bride.

“You fought well. I have no doubt you could be in the final group of candidates. Why withdraw now?”

“If I withdraw, Garak can continue. I believe he deserves the opportunity.” He crossed his arms, aiming for casual indifference. “I’ve had my fun. Proved what I needed to prove.”

“Did you?”

Ulric’s tone held a hint of challenge, but he managed to shrug and smile, although it felt brittle around the edges.

“What can I say? The arena life isn’t for me after all.”

“A noble gesture,” Jessamin murmured, her blue eyes too knowing, and his jaw clenched.

He felt uncomfortably exposed, unable to mask how much it was costing him to walk away.

“If that’s all, Your Majesty?”

He kept his voice light, refusing to acknowledge the sympathy on Jessamin’s face and the thoughtful look in Ulric’s eyes.

“One last question. Do you think Garak can make it through to the end?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “He’s a good fighter.”

“Very well. I’ll make the announcement before the next match.”

He bowed, then left, his back straight and his heart heavy, pausing at the arena’s exit as the king’s voice rang out across the grounds. A roar went up from the crowd, a mixture of cheers and disappointed groans.

He shouldn’t have looked back. But he did.

The Bride’s face had transformed. Her brilliant smile was like a punch to his stomach. Not because it was beautiful - though it was - but because it wasn’t meant for him. Would never be meant for him.

His belongings waited in the fighters’ quarters. He’d traveled light and it took only moments to pack them into a leather satchel. He looked around at the bare room, the only trace of his presence the dark stain his sword oil had left on a wooden bench. The emptiness reflected the emptiness inside him.

He headed out, ignoring the curious glances from the other competitors. He had no desire to discuss his withdrawal.

The sounds of the arena followed him through Port Cael’s winding streets - another horn, cheers, the clash of weapons. He’d done the right thing, but the knowledge tasted of ash and emptiness. The banners snapping in the salt breeze seemed to mock him, waving him away from his chance at a mate, at a future.

But away to where? He couldn’t face the thought of returning to his clan. Wulf would be sympathetic, even approving if he told him why he’d withdrawn, but he didn’t want sympathy. And ashappy as he was that his brother had found a mate, right now watching that happiness would only rub salt in his wounds.

The heavily forested peaks surrounding Port Cael rose up in front of him, and instead of heading north towards home, he turned his feet towards them and let the trees swallow him.

CHAPTER 2

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